Wrapped Around Her Finger
by MyLittleYellowBird
Summary: Shelagh and Patrick learn the key to marriage: happy wife, happy life! A collection of one-shots, in no particular order.
1. Chapter 1: Patrick Goes to Sunday School

Chapter 1: Patrick Goes to Sunday School

The first Sunday after the honeymoon, Patrick came down to breakfast a bit later than usual. Dressed in his best suit, hair smooth and smelling of cologne, he smiled sheepishly as he sat down to his coffee.

"Where are you going dressed up like that?" Timothy asked, cheekily.

"I thought I might go along with the both of you to church today, if that's all right." Sitting at the breakfast table, he picked up his paper as if he hadn't said anything remotely unusual.

"Church?" Tim asked, incredulous. "You only go to Church on Christmas and Easter. Before Mum came along, you only even sent me when Granny Parker took me."

"Patrick, you don't have to come with us. I wasn't expecting you to," Shelagh told him. She knew Patrick's life, if not his faith, was testament to his devotion to a Higher Purpose. His lack of attendance at weekly services was less important than his care and support of those in need.

"I want to. Really." He reached out and squeezed her hand.

"Well, then, of course we're happy to have you join us," she smiled and shyly kissed his forehead before she went to finish dressing.

Listening to make sure Shelagh had gone up the stairs, Tim whispered to his father, "Granny says that you've _never_ really gone to church. That you said once you weren't even sure if you believed in God."

Patrick put down his paper. "I'm not quite sure what I believe, Tim. I haven't been a church go-er for most of my adult life. Your mother wasn't really, either. Our faith wasn't something we discussed, or even thought about much." He took a sip of his tea. "This last year has certainly made me rethink a lot of things. There's so much to be grateful for. I can't help but think that there's something, some kind of force that's behind it all. I'm not sure what it is, but I'll say this: there are some things I know beyond any doubt. Most importantly," he grinned, "it will make my wife happy if I go to Church with her. And when Shelagh's happy, I'm happy."

Timothy shook his head. "Women certainly change things."

"They do, indeed, son," his father agreed.

"What have we come to?" questioned Timothy. "Both of us dressed our best and ready to sit listening to Reverend Collins on a perfectly fine Sunday morning." He munched on his toast, shaking his head resignedly. "Two grown men, completely wrapped around her finger."

Patrick laughed. "It's not so bad, son."

"Mhmm," Timothy muttered. "Just wait, Dad. She'll have us planting flowers and dressing up for dinner any day now."


	2. Chapter 2: Surprises

Humming to herself, Shelagh let herself in the front door. She couldn't wait to tell Patrick how right he had been.

"Go, Shelagh. You should go. You haven't been away from the baby since she came home. You're always happy when you've had a chance to sing," Patrick had told her.

"I sing all day, don't I, Angela? We sing together." She nuzzled the baby's neck. "Patrick, it's too soon. The choir can manage just fine without me for a Christmas concert. Maybe in the spring," she concluded.

"Shelagh, it's only an hour or two. I'll be here with the baby, there's nothing for you to worry about. I am a doctor, you know. They do teach us a few things about baby care in medical school."

"Patrick…" Shelagh was unconvinced.

"Shelagh. No one will think you aren't completely besotted with her if you step out of the house for a choir practice without her. Especially if you leave her with her father, a respected medical man of the community. You _know_ you miss the choir. You said so last week." Grinning, he knew he would convince her. "I'll even give Angela her bath while you're gone."

The crease in Shelagh's forehead appeared, and immediately, he knew he had made a wrong move.

"Oh, no, Patrick, that won't be necessary. I've already given the baby her bath today. I wouldn't want to dry out her skin. Or get her off her schedule. Patrick, dear, if I am going to do this, you'll have to promise to stick to my instructions."

"Yes, dear."

Practice had been lovely. The choir chose "O, Holy Night," one of Shelagh's favorites, and all had insisted that she sing a verse solo, as a way of enticing her to stay within the fold. "I'm becoming a very vain person," she scolded herself half-heartedly.

Entering the house quietly, (as she was always reminding Patrick and Timothy to do, so as not to wake the baby) Shelagh could hear noises coming from the kitchen. Curious, she tiptoed in to get a better look. Their Patrick stood, splashing a laughing baby in her tub up in the kitchen sink. His fine tenor voice sang:

When Father hung the paper in the hall

He hung the parlour paper on the wall

he papered all the stairs

He papered all the chairs

He even hung the border on the wall

When the ladder slipped and he began to fall

He split a bucket of paste upon us all

And like birds of a feather

We all stuck together

When Father hung the paper in the hall!"

As the silly song ended, he laughed at baby Angela. "See, Mummy's not the only one who can sing in this house. Your old dad's not so bad, is he?" He tickled her tummy and the baby let out a happy screech. "Yes, you like your tubby time, don't you?"

Shelagh watched as Patrick used a small pot to pour water over the back of the baby's head. Her heart was bursting with love for this man. He had given her so much: his love, this family, her happy life. She could never show him enough how happy he made her.

She slipped up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"So this is what you get up to when I'm out! A second bath?" she teased, laughing up at him.

Surprised, he turned to look down at her. "Shelagh! How long have you been there?"

"Long enough to hear what happens when Father does the decorating!" she chuckled.

Patrick blushed. "I can never remember the words to lullabies nor nursery rhymes. That one just came to my head. Don't tease, love."

"I'm afraid I can't help it. And this little girl certainly seems to be enjoying herself!"

Patrick handed Angela her rattle. "When I could get home in the evenings, I used to give Tim baths in the kitchen sink when he was a baby, too. It was our special time, just the two of us. Margaret would always find something else to do and the two of us would make a mess." He shifted and placed an arm around Shelagh.

She reached up to kiss him, happy and content.

Wanting to be the center of attention again, Angela laughed and kicked at the water, sending a splash over the tub and drenching her father.

Shelagh laughed. "Next time, Patrick, you should wear my apron. Yellow is a lovely color on you!"


	3. Chapter 3: Pencil Skirt

Shelagh was more nervous than she expected. She knew this day would come, she'd been warned enough times. But now that it was upon her, she feared she had underestimated how very difficult it was going to be. There would be people staring at her, she would be forced to make choices, and she feared she would never be the same. But there was no backing out now. It was too late.

"Shelagh, you really must try to look a little enthusiastic," admonished Trixie. "I promise, you won't regret doing this. And you'll be making Dr. Turner the happiest of men."

"Trixie, don't tease," said Cynthia. "Shelagh, you don't have to do this. Don't let anyone push you into doing anything you don't want."

"No one's pushing her, Cynthia. Just a little nudge, that's all." Trixie was not going to give up this fight. Not when it was something she believed in so strongly.

Jenny jumped to Trixie's defense. "Trixie's right. Shelagh, you just have to resign yourself to it. It's not so very terrible, is it? I'm sure you'll be happy in the long run that you did."

Shelagh knew she was no match for the two of them together, not to mention the others. Even with Cynthia's support, there was little chance she would withstand the demands of so many. It was expected. Besides, if she was completely honest with herself, she wanted to do it. It was a bit daring, she thought. Provocative.

"Oh, all right. I'll try it on," she conceded. Taking the armful of clothes from Trixie, she turned to the fitting room.

Patrick was late home that evening, but Shelagh waited up for her husband. She had something to show him. Her patience was rewarded when Patrick came home. His coat and medical bag away, he entered the sitting room, looking for his bride.

"Shelagh?" he called. Turning the corner, he stopped short. Before him stood his demure wife of two weeks in a snug sweater and the most flirtatious skirt he had ever seen. Ever.

"Hello, Patrick," she answered. She took the last few steps toward him, her new, slightly-higher-than-usual shoes creating a very different type of movement in her hips than he was used to. He gulped.

"I went shopping today," she told him.

"I can see that," he answered huskily.

"I bought a few things. I hope you don't mind, dearest."

He shook his head. He was supposed to say something, but couldn't imagine what. All he knew was that he was the happiest of men.


	4. Chapter 4: When Did You Know?

"When did you know?" Shelagh asked Patrick as they strolled the length of the beach, arm in arm. Today was their one month wedding anniversary, and while Timothy was visiting his grandmother, they had decided a day at the sea shore was just the thing. The fact that the weather was damp and a bit misty did nothing to diminish their enthusiasm. In fact, misty days seemed to be a favorite of theirs.

"Know what?" Patrick smiled down at his wife.

"When did you know you…" Shelagh blushed and looked away.

A smile spread across his face. Shelagh should never play poker, he thought. Her face was as easy to read as one of Timothy's comic books. He decided to tease her a bit. "Hmmm? When did I know I-what?"

"I was just being silly, Patrick. Never mind." Shelagh

He laughed. "Shall I guess what you were going to say, sweetheart?" His head tilted to one side as he studied her face. "When did I know I loved you?" His voice grew tender as he said the words.

Blushing even more fiercely, Shelagh whispered, "Yes. We've never…"

"Talked about this?" He finished for her. His hands came up and cupped her face. "We never have, have we? Even now, there's still so much for us to say." He bent a kissed her slowly, his lips grazing over hers. Even though the beach was deserted, it wasn't a private place, after all, and Shelagh was still uncomfortable with open affection in public. She seemed to be agreeable, however, as her arms slid up around his neck, pulling him down closer to her. Patrick's arms tightened around her and his mouth became more demanding, coaxing her lips to open to him. Sighing, she matched him kiss for kiss for long moments before they came up for air.

"I knew that day in the Parish Hall kitchen," he told her.

"Which day in the kitchen, Patrick? I seem to remember a lot of time in the kitchen." Shelagh had a naughty smile on her face.

"Sly one," he told her, kissing her lightly. "I had to requisition items for the clinic, and you were assigned the onerous task of assisting me. There were these old spirit lamps…"

"I remember," Shelagh whispered. "I was trying so hard to be professional, but then I looked up into your eyes and I was lost." She snuggled into his arms, her head resting on his chest.

"I couldn't breathe," he admitted. "I thought I could see right into your heart." His arms tightened.

"You probably could," Shelagh answered, knowingly.

"I couldn't sleep at all that night. I kept thinking, "What an awful mess I've gotten myself into." Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that we could be here today."

"But we are."

"But we are, my love."

They stood like that, wrapped in each others arms for a long time. Suddenly, the mist changed into a driving rain, and they ran, laughing, back to the car. Catching their breath as they drove back home, they smiled at each other like the newlyweds they were. As they pulled up to the house, Patrick asked, "So when did _you_ know?"

"Oh, dearest, is was well before the spirit lamps," Shelagh giggled.

"Shelagh, when?" he demanded.

'Oh, you'll have to guess, Patrick."

He slid over to her side of the car seat. "I like guessing games. What do I get if I win?" Her hair, curling from the rain, was soft in his fingers.

Shelagh smiled her bold new smile. "I think maybe we'll both win."


	5. Chapter 5 When Did You Know, Too?

When Did You Know, Too?

Warm and content, Shelagh sighed deeply. Languidly, she turned and wrapped herself around her husband; her head resting on his chest, smiling as she felt his heart rate finally slow down. Patrick pressed a kiss into her hair and they drowsed, listening to the rain patter against their bedroom window.

Smiling, Shelagh lifted her face to his, her forearms sliding up to rest on his chest. "Can you guess?" she asked. Her fingers glanced along the contours of his collarbone.

Patrick laughed, his arms tightening around her. "Shelagh, love, you are lying naked in my arms and I _still_ can't believe you love me. How could I possibly have known when we were both trying so hard to hide it?"

She smiled and settled back against his chest. "It was the button," she told him.

Patrick's face showed his confusion. "The button?" he asked. He tilted his head, hoping to see her face, but Shelagh hid it in her shyness.

"You lost a button on your lab coat last spring. It was missing for weeks, and you never replaced it."

Patrick tried to think back, frowning in concentration. "I remember, now. I would think of it when I put it on, but then it would slip my mind as soon as the coat was off. I didn't even notice it was replaced until, oh, summer, maybe? Was that you?" He tipped her chin up, coaxing her eyes to meet his.

"Yes," she whispered.

He smiled. "So that's when you knew," he said, satisfied.

"No."

"No?"

"No. That's when I knew I would never change my feelings." He smiled a sigh as she continued, "But I'd known for months that I loved you. Before Christmas, I realized I became nervous whenever you came into a room. By winter, I was praying for God to help relieve me of my growing devotion." She breathed deeply. "I sewed the new button on when I finally admitted to myself that my feelings would never go away. I couldn't act on them, but I could try to make your life easier in small ways."

Patrick gazed at his wife, his expression thoughtful, as if he were remembering something. "I am so very lucky to have you, my love," he said. "I don't deserve you."

"Silly man, of course you do. But you could try to make it up to me. Go and put the kettle on. I'm gasping for a cup of tea."


	6. Chapter 6 Patrick Makes His Mark

Shelagh not-very-gracefully managed to pull the zipper up in the back of her dress. Patrick was in the bathroom shaving, and while she could have asked him, she had already found that to be counter-productive. He never seemed to get the zipper to stay up, and as they needed to begin their drive home shortly, his efforts to distract her would make them late. She smoothed the dress down and looked in the mirror. A giggle rose up, and she looked away, blushing. She felt so very different. Every part of her was different. She knew things, had felt things she never felt before.

Three days ago, she thought she knew what to expect from marriage. She had been a midwife, after all. The mechanics of love were quite clear, or so she had thought. Yet the intimacy, the intensity, even the ultimate conclusion were so much more than she could have imagined. She was changed forever, and could not have been happier.

Determined to face her new self, she looked in the mirror again. Did she look different? She wondered. Could others see this joyful knowledge in her eyes? Here in this small seaside resort no one knew her, or even paid much attention to her. To be honest, she admitted to herself, she and Patrick had left the room so few times that most people in the hotel didn't even know the new couple was there. But back home, those that had known and loved her for so many years, would they see it?

Patrick tapped at the door. "Shelagh?" he called quietly.

"Come in," she answered. Opening the door slowly, Patrick entered, carrying his shaving kit under his arm. "Patrick, there's no need to knock. This is your room, too," Shelagh teased.

Grinning, he shrugged. "Trying to ease you into life with little privacy slowly, my love. A closed door doesn't stand much of a chance against Timothy. That's why our door now has a lock." He crossed the room to stand behind her. "Are you admiring my beautiful bride?" he asked. His hands on her shoulders, he breathed in the scent of her hair deeply. "Maybe we can get a late start? Tim will be fine at his grandmother's for an extra hour or so."

"No, Patrick," she chided. "I want to start my life with my family. Let's go home."

"Hmmm?" he murmured, nuzzling her ear. "But tonight is such a long time from now."

"Tonight will come soon enough, I promise." She stepped out of his arms and moved to the dressing table. Picking up her hairbrush, she smiled as she watched Patrick move out of sight of the mirror, complaining of his neglectful wife. The brush smoothed her shining hair and she began to gather it up in her customary twist. "Oh," she breathed. She looked more closely at her neck. "What on earth? Patrick, come look. There's some sort of a rash here."

"A rash?" He crossed the room to stand beside her. "Where?" Craning his neck, he peered down at her, and then exhaled sharply.

"What is it? I've never seen anything like it." Shelagh was concerned.

Patrick was not. Choking back laughter, he told her, "That's not a rash, sweetheart."

"Of course it is." She stroked her hand over the mark. "What else could it be? What could have caused it?"

A lopsided, sheepish grin spread across his face, making him look like a young boy: naughty, yet oddly proud of himself. "I'm afraid it was me," he admitted.

"You?! How could you possibly-?" Shelagh gasped, stunned. "Oh, Patrick, it was you!"

His shoulders shaking with mirth, Patrick fell back on the bed.

"Oh, you beast!" The crease in her forehead became very pronounced. "Patrick! How could you?" Shelagh rubbed at the mark, but knew it would not rub off. "Now what am I supposed to do?"

Trying valiantly to regain control of himself, Patrick sat up, resting on his elbows. "I'm sorry, Shelagh, really I am. I must have lost con-" his laughter broke out again, uncontained.

Shelagh stood and faced him, glaring down at him on the bed, hands on her hips. "You really are a beast, Patrick. How on earth am I going to cover this up? Everyone will all see it!"

He really did look ridiculous, laughing there on the bed. Shelagh shook her head at him, her irritation gone. "You're quite pleased with yourself, aren't you?" She knelt on the bed, leaning over him. He nodded silently, happy to be at her mercy.

"I suppose I could just wear my hair down, couldn't I? Then no one would see it," she suggested. Again, he nodded.

"So there's a problem solved." Practically purring, Shelagh lowered her head to his throat. "But how will you hide yours?" she whispered.


	7. Chapter 7: Maybe Not Handwriting Lessons

Patrick laughed. His poor penmanship was a long-standing joke between them, stemming from an incident involving an 'r' mistaken for an 'n' and a very long lecture from Sister Monica Joan.

"Oh, Shelagh," he called as she reached the door to his office.

Shelagh stopped and turned back. "Yes, Doctor?"

Patrick got up from his desk, crossing the room in a few short strides. "You've sorted out the patients' files, but what about the poor doctor?"  
Shelagh blushed. This new teasing still flustered her every time. "And does the doctor require sorting out, then?" she asked guilelessly.

"Absolutely he does." Patrick's devilish grin contradicted his serious tone. He stepped closer, forcing Shelagh to move back away from him. When she bumped up against the wall behind her, his grin became even wider. His arms came up on either side of her, trapping her against the wall. "You mustn't neglect your duties, you know. That skirt has caused a quite a bit of trouble."

"And what exactly does the doctor need?" she responded breathlessly.

"Quite a lot, it would seem. And quite frequently."

"Patrick!" she whispered, blushing a fierce red.

"Shelagh," he whispered back. He lowered his head until their mouths were close, but not touching. Shelagh knew he was teasing her, that he was waiting for her to make the next move. She also knew that he was very confident in this strategy.

"Infuriating man!" she muttered. She reached up over his shoulders and pulled his lips to hers. Instantly his arms were around her, crushing her to him. How long this might have continued no one knows (although many would like to guess that this reached it's natural conclusion on his desk), for they could hear the doors to the surgery burst open as Sister Evangelina called out, "Now why on God's green earth is it necessary for me to sort everything out every time we start somewhere new?!"


	8. Chapter 8: Teacups and Comfort

Teacups and Comfort

Shelagh spent the first Saturday morning since the wedding in a cleaning frenzy.

"Is this what it's going to be like from now on?" Timothy complained.

"Tim," warned his father, "Let her be. And go straighten your room."

Slowly thumping up the stairs, Timothy continued to grumble. "The house was clean already. It's not like the Queen is coming. It's just Granny Parker."

Patrick grinned. Running his hand through his hair, he joined his anxious new bride in the kitchen. Shelagh was standing at the table, staring down at two sets of tea cups. Coming up behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist. "Tea cups giving you trouble, sweetheart? Pesky little things." He didn't have to see her face to know her forehead was creased in concern. It had become a personal challenge to kiss that sign of worry away at every chance. He bent his head to nuzzle behind her ear.

"Patrick, please. Don't distract me. I can't decide which teacups to use."

"It's just a tea set, Shelagh. Anna's coming for the company, not the china."

When Shelagh didn't respond, he turned her around in his arms. "Shelagh? What is it? You've been skittish all day."

"I just want everything to go well today." She would not meet his eyes.

"Sweetheart, it will. It's only tea. You make a lovely tea."

"Yes, Patrick, but…" Shelagh didn't finish her thought aloud.

He moved his hands to cup her face. Staring into her eyes, he said, "It's not the tea cups. What's really bothering you?"

Shelagh's eyes filled with tears. "I'm so unsure, Patrick. This must be so hard for her, and I'm so afraid I'll gum things up."

Patrick leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her pretty mouth. "How could you possibly gum things up?"

"What if I use the wrong teacups?"

Patrick squinted, shaking his head. "I don't understand."

Shelagh turned away and took a deep breath, trying to organize her thoughts. " Should I use Margaret's tea cups, or the blue and white set Mrs. B gave us as a wedding present? If I use Margaret's, she might think I'm trying to replace her daughter. If I use the new ones, she might think I'm erasing her."

Finally comprehending the root of the problem, Patrick let out a relieved sigh. "Sweetheart, we're on a new path here. Anna knows that. We won't forget Margaret, but she'd want us to move on. She would definitely not want us to make a shrine to her, especially out of tea cups." He leaned towards her, tilting his head as tried to understand her. Then he smiled. "Will it make you feel any better if I told you those aren't Margaret's tea cups?"

Surprised, Shelagh looked back. "They're not?"

"No. You might recall I have a talent for breaking tea cups. By the time Timothy was born, we'd probably been through three sets. We only had a full set the first time I brought you home because I was embarrassed to show you our jumble. This set's only a few months old." He stepped over to her and took her in his arms. "So you see, no subtext necessary. Just pick the set you like." He returned to nuzzling her ear.

Shelagh let out a ragged sigh of relief. "You're sure?"

By now his lips had moved to just above her collarbone. "Yes, I'm sure," he said as he tasted the smooth skin there. Still a bit overwhelmed by the intensity of their new intimacies, Shelagh surrendered completely to her husband's kiss. The world disappeared as the kiss grew deeper, their bodies pressed closer. They only came up for air when they were startled by the sound of crashing china.

Panting, they both stared down at the broken blue and white tea cup. Sheepishly, Patrick bent to pick it up, apologizing.

Shelagh laughed. "Well that's back to normal, then," she whispered as she pulled her husband's head down to hers.


End file.
